


Hot Like Ice

by PetitAvocat



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Mild Gore, Post-War, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:24:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetitAvocat/pseuds/PetitAvocat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, even without Shepard's gravitational pull to keep them in the same orbit, James Vega and Miranda Lawson keep circling each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> originally prompted by [jay-8008](jay-8008.tumblr.com) on tumblr as a little smut-ficlet, but i loved the idea so much that it's turned into a full-on fic in its own right. also, no smut yet, but it'll happen eventually.
> 
> ...probably.

Miranda wakes up to a steaming coffee mug on the table in front of her.  She blinks sleepily, and rubs at the lines she can feel on her face from resting on datapads.  She has no idea what time it is, but James Vega is sitting against a wall nearby. 

“Lieutenant, did you see who…?” 

He smiles, a little sheepishly.  _Oh_. 

“Thank you.”  And he nods. 

He’s been doing this for weeks.  Just being there when she needs him – _no, not **him**_ , she quickly corrects herself, _just when you need **something**_ – and knowing exactly what to do to help her stay on her feet. 

She’s so exhausted.  But it’s almost over.  Major surgeries for most of the war heroes, the ones they couldn’t afford to lose, are done, and it’s mostly monitoring and dealing with unexpected setbacks from here on out.  Hopefully there won’t be too many more of those. 

She thinks, briefly, that James wouldn’t have been in the category of _can’t afford to lose_ , and her heart pounds a funny little skipping rhythm against her ribcage for a few seconds. 

“Ms. Lawson…”  Oh, he’s standing right next to her.  When did he move?  “…you look really tense.  You think I could – I mean, I can help you with that, maybe, if you want.” 

“What are you talking about, Lieutenant?” 

He chuckles a little and bounces on the balls of his feet.  So eager, so much energy.  “I thought I told you to call me James.  Or Vega.  Not Lieutenant.” 

She _hmms_ , but doesn’t say anything, so he keeps going, smirking as he picks up steam.  “I, uh, I’ve been told that I give a pretty good massage.  I could – I could do that for you, help you loosen up a little?” 

His words have the opposite effect, and she feels herself tense all over, eyes narrowing.  “I do _not_ need to loosen up, Lieutenant.  Please excuse me, I’ve gotten far enough behind as it is.” 

She makes for the door but he steps in front of her.  He’s big – almost twice as broad as she is – but she doesn’t feel intimidated, and she’s not sure whether that’s because of her confidence or his… _warmth_ , she thinks, and then pushes it down and replaces it with _softness_.  She’s not sure which is better. 

He smiles lopsidedly at her, and hands her the coffee she left on the table. 

She feels herself melt a little.  Their fingers brush when she accepts the mug.  “Thank you,” she says again. 

He nods, steps aside, and she leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

He starts leaving coffee for her every morning.  She would be a little bit unnerved by it if she didn’t know him, know how genuine and sweet he is; admittedly, she was thrown off the first morning she walked past reception and the nurse called out to her, holding a cup of coffee that was made exactly the way she liked it.  But it didn’t take long for her to figure out who’d gotten it for her, by the way James’s eyes darted away from hers as soon as she looked in his direction. 

It’s almost cute, the way he thinks he’s being subtle.

He sits outside the door to Shepard’s room.  The Commander is still in a coma.  The prognosis looks good, but there’s no way to tell how long the coma will last.  James doesn’t care – he’s there every day, and Miranda knows that it was only at the insistence of Admiral Hackett that he is relieved at night so he can get some real sleep. 

He still looks tired, constantly, almost as tired as she feels. 

She’s not really sure what he does all day.  Sometimes he’s reading a datapad, sometimes watching the news or a vid on his old beat-up omni-tool, sometimes just staring off into space, but he always avoids eye contact when she walks past him and rarely speaks unless spoken to. 

So, she starts speaking to him.  Not a lot.  Mostly, their exchanges go like this: 

“Good morning, Lt. Vega.” 

“Ms. Lawson.” 

She leans into the retinal scan, enters Shepard’s room to check vitals, and when she has ascertained that nothing has changed, she leaves. 

“See you this evening, Lt. Vega.” 

“Uh-huh, see you, Ms. Lawson.” 

And that’s their routine for weeks.  He gets her coffee.  She never says thank you and he never says you’re welcome, and they speak to each other twice a day when she checks on the most important person in the hospital. 

Very, very rarely, Miranda indulges herself.  On these days that stand so few and sparse, she sits down at Shepard’s bedside and lets her head hang between her arms, breathes deeper, allows her hands to shake under the burdens they have had to bear. 

Then she collects herself, rolls her shoulders back, and leaves the room with her head high. 

Coffee in hand. 

She accidentally makes eye contact with James on one such day, and he holds it longer than usual.  If she didn’t know any better, she might think there was concern, or understanding, in his eyes.  _If_ she didn’t know any better. 

She completes their ritual – _see you this evening, Mr. Vega; uh-huh, see you, Ms. Lawson_ – and the world rights itself again and she rounds the corner and brings her coffee to her lips and the lid trembles slightly against her mouth. 

* 

Ten days later, their routine is thrown off.  There is no coffee waiting for her, and Miranda tells herself it’s just a cough stuck in her throat as she walks towards Shepard’s room empty-handed.  She leaves as quickly as possible and she looks at the empty chair where James should be sitting for a second too long.  Her foot catches on one of its legs and she trips. 

Abstractly, she notices that her reflexes are slower than they used to be.  Fatigue?  Lack of training?  Age?  It’s not enough to interfere with her medical abilities, but it might be enough to get her killed on a battlefield.  And it’s certainly enough to turn a stumble into a faceplant in the middle of the hospital hallway. 

At least she manages to get her hands in front of her to break her fall. 

They don’t hit the floor, though.  Instead, they collide with a solid, warm chest, with solid, warm arms wrapping around her. 

Her breath catches in her throat as she finds herself in James Vega’s embrace, blinking up into his dark eyes.  She’s a little bit embarrassed that her arms automatically clung to his neck, but he doesn’t seem perturbed. 

His gaze darts down to her lips and then back to her eyes.  She can _feel_ the reflexive impulse to do the same – they’ve never been this close before – but she crushes it before her body can disobey her. 

“Ms. Lawson,” he murmurs, and his breath brushes her cheek with the warmth of a kiss. 

She stares at him for a moment more, stunned and at a loss for the correct way to respond.  Then – _finally_ – she has the presence of mind to scrabble her feet back underneath her and stand up properly.  He releases her immediately and steps back, one big hand rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Thank you, James,” she says without thinking, and the blinding grin she gets in return makes her realize she used his first name. 

The grin turns a little bit sly.  “You’re welcome, Miranda.  And hey, by the way – your coffee is at the front desk.” 

“You were late today.”  She tries for chastising, and doesn’t quite make it. 

He smirks a little bit more.  “Pretty sure I got here just in time.”


	3. Chapter 3

Small things build onto their daily interactions, brick-by-bricking their relationship from the ground up.  James keeps bringing her coffee.  Miranda asks around and finds out where to get the best Mexican food; she has _huevos_ delivered to the hospital early in the morning one day, and after she arrives and picks up her coffee, she sees him watching her, shy smile on his face. 

She can’t help but smile back. 

So when she comes in and sees his right arm in a sling, bandages winding over his bicep and disappearing under his shirt, she is – as adamantly as she would deny it – immediately concerned.  She forgoes her visit to Shepard for the moment, approaching and setting the coffee on the ground, kneeling next to him, already in clinical mode.  Her fingers prod gently at the muscle and he pulls back. 

“Whoa, what are you – ”  He pulls away, but she tsks at him. 

“Stay still, Lieutenant.” 

“I got it checked out already.” 

“By whom?” 

“The, uh – I don’t remember his name, one of the docs over in the east wing – ” 

“The east wing is taxed to capacity.  He probably just made sure it wasn’t going to fall off.  Stop squirming and let me see.” 

James finally goes still and she lifts his arm from the sling.  He winces.  Her lips form a thin line and she presses an obscure pattern into his arm from elbow up, pushing his sleeve higher as she goes. 

“What happened?”  Her fingers are still exploring.

“I’m…”  The way his eyes slide away, it’s almost like he’s expecting disapproval of what he says next, and she feels a strange lurch in her stomach at the subsequent implication that he cares about what she thinks.  “I help out with relief efforts when I’m off.” 

She levels him with a look.  “When you’re off.  You mean, during the time you’re supposed to be sleeping?” 

“They don’t have enough manpower as it is.”  He’s gone from contrite to defensive.  “I have to do something, Miranda.” 

“Have to constantly throw yourself in harm’s way, you mean.  What do you have left to prove?” 

“What the hell!  Who says I’m proving anything to anyone but mys– ” 

Her eyebrow raises with only a hint of smugness, but she doesn’t make eye contact, focusing on her inspection.  When she gets to the inside of his arm, just below his shoulder, he hisses in pain, and she freezes.  James Vega does not express pain lightly. 

More alarm bells ring when red stains start to seep through the bandages.  She swears quietly.  With the shortage of medi-gel, they’ve had to fall back on older practices, and – “This wasn’t stitched up properly.  _What_ happened, Lieutenant?” 

“I was lifting some slabs of concrete, clearing an area.  Building we were in wasn’t stable.  Pieces started falling with all the moving around, and…”  He shrugs his uninjured shoulder.  “Used my arm to stop it from hitting my head, so… that’s good, right?” 

She _almost_ rolls her eyes at the look he gives her, all puppy-eyes and approval-seeking – but he’s right, it would’ve been much worse if it had hit his head.  Instead, she huffs. 

“We need to get you cleaned up or this will get infected.”  

He gestures angrily with his free arm.  “It’s hardly a scratch!” 

Refusing to take the bait, she stands up and her heels click as she checks the OR across the hall.  It’s occupied, and she makes an impatient face, moving off down the corridor and checking the status of other rooms as she goes.  When she’s almost at the corner, she realizes James isn’t following and turns around, arms crossed over her chest. 

“Are you coming?” 

He startles to his feet and jogs over to her; she does a cursory check to make sure he didn’t damage his arm more in the sudden movement – still bleeding, but what can you expect – and then they round the corner, his footsteps trailing slightly behind hers.  There’s an empty OR a few doors down and she ducks in, signs it out, motions him into the room and points at the operating table.  He boosts himself onto it, legs swinging like an oversized kid. 

“Take off your shirt.” 

His lips twitch in an echo of a smirk, like he’s about to make some kind of joke, but he seems to think better of it.  _Smart man_ , she thinks.  _For once._  

She lays out the tools she’ll need next to him and unwraps the poorly-done bandage, revealing a deep messy wound with sloppy stitches holding it closed. 

“Hardly a scratch?” 

He looks away. 

“I need to take these out and then redo them.  Do you want an anaesthetic?” 

“No.  Save it for someone who needs it.” 

There’s a pause, but then she nods briskly.  “Very well.”

She tries to make the procedure as quick and painless as possible, but no matter how many gene mods you have, stitches are always going to hurt.  And he needs quite a few. 

At one point, she finds herself suddenly aware that she’s standing between his legs to get a better angle at the wound, and she glances up at his face to gauge his reaction before she can stop herself.  He’s staring at some invisible point on the far wall, teeth gritted, his other hand white-knuckled on the table. 

She resorts to what she knows will help keep his mind off the pain. 

“So, what, you survive the war only to be taken out by a fallen building?”  With how much she’s wincing sympathetically, it’s hard to inject the proper amount of sarcasm – but she manages, and he responds just as she hoped. 

“Hey, hey, I wasn’t _taken out_!  I can shoot just as good with my left hand.  And no lasting damage.” 

At her silence, he looks down at her nervously – she can feel his eyes on her head, even if she doesn’t look back. 

“…hey, no lasting damage, right?” 

Her lips purse.  “The muscles felt fine so I don’t think you’ve done any permanent damage, no, but… the original work wasn’t up to standards, Lieutenant.  You might have a scar.” 

At that, he just laughs, and she feels her mouth want to curve up in a relieved smile.  “Scars are fine, _chica_.  Got plenty of those already.  Just one more to add to the collection.” 

She lets the endearment slide, finishing the stitchwork and stepping back, reaching for more bandages.  It looks considerably neater and the injury is held together much more tightly now; she applies a very small dose of medi-gel (against his protests), places some gauze directly over it, and guides his hand to hold it in place while she winds the bandages around his shoulder and partially down his arm. 

She tries very hard not to think about his muscles in terms like _bulging_ or _impressive_. 

As they walk back down the hall to his sentry chair, he says, “So, back in business, yeah?” 

“Please try to refrain from lifting heavy objects until that heals, James.” 

Damn it.  That’s her second slip-up, and she knows he noticed by the way he grins and ducks his head. 

“Thanks, doc.” 

When they get back to his chair at Shepard’s door, his face falls a little bit.  “Oh, your – your coffee’s cold by now.” 

She doesn’t really care, but he looks so crestfallen – and it _is_ good coffee.  It’s lukewarm, not cold, when she tastes it, so it shouldn’t take too much effort to heat it back up… 

She concentrates, holding the coffee with one hand and placing her other under the cup, generating a small but powerful biotic field that will heat the drink from below.  A small thrill runs through her at the way James’s eyes go big as he watches, and after thirty seconds or so, she takes another test sip. 

“Perfect,” she says – and his face lights up again, and it really is.


End file.
